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There is a ghost in the halls of Garreg Mach.
Felix can feel it when he eats, when he trains, when he is in class, when he does his chores – but especially when he is alone at night.
He tries to describe it to Sylvain once; loathe as he is to admit it, Sylvain probably is the person he’s closest to at the monastery.
“I don’t know how else to describe it,” he says, when Sylvain asks for more detail. “It’s just a feeling, like someone is there. I don’t even know why I bothered telling you. Perhaps you’d be more inclined to care if I told you I was seeing visions of a shapely young woman.”
“Fe, come on, that’s not fair!” Sylvain cries. “Maybe you’re just imagining things. Or maybe it’s the ghost of someone who died in the monastery! I’m sure Jeralt could tell you some tales. Oooh, scary…”
“You’re not taking this seriously.” Felix rolls his eyes, annoyed. “Nevermind. I’m going to train.”
But of course, training does nothing to help – the presence only grows. The training grounds are in the open air, so there’s not a small space to fill till its fit to burst, not like his room, but Felix feels smothered nonetheless.
He grunts, annoyed, and makes another slash at the dummy in front of him, taking out his frustrations on the – ghost, or whatever it may be. Forward, parry, thrust, slash, a feint – slash again, and –
He falters, his grip slipping under a sweaty palm. He whirls around, eyes darting around the grounds to be sure that nobody watched his blunder, pride stifled, but nobody is there. It is only him and the thing watching him. Distantly, he hears laughter, and it sounds eerily like Glenn’s had; rich and alive, yet wry and private, with the deepness that comes with being a boy having crested past puberty.
He can feel his cheeks redden, despite the strange gust of wind that passes, despite it being late Spring. He tries not to think of Glenn often. There is anger there, and grief, but there are other things. Forbidden things, wrong things, and he is loathe to think of how right they feel to him. Of the times he’d wondered what it may be like to do the things one does with a lover with his older brother. The one who had been his idol, the one who had always treated Felix with kindness despite a guarded personality with anyone else – the personality that Felix had adopted when Glenn had gone on.
But there is no point dwelling on such things: even if Glenn hadn’t found Felix’s thoughts sick, he isn’t here to act on them, no matter what either of them may want.
Perhaps Sylvain is right, and he is just imagining things. The thought of the presence being the ghost of his dead brother is entirely too much to deal with. If he just concentrates on his studies, training, and avoiding the Boar, it will go away.
Try as he might to ignore the thing (because he could not simply write it off as a presence, not anymore – not when it had laughed at him, and made him stumble and falter, and followed him), it will not relent.
He thinks he hates it. He came to this monastery for one reason: to become the best swordsman the Holy Kingdom had ever known. And how is he meant to do that if there is someone constantly over his shoulder, watching his every move, that he cannot even challenge to a duel?
The answer, quite obviously, is to get rid of it.
If Felix were being entirely truthful, then he would be forced to admit that he was a tad obsessed.
Just what is this thing following him, taunting him, fancying itself to be Glenn? Why is it mocking him, the big brother he had loved and revered? Why can’t he figure it out? What must he do to banish it?
Clearly waiting is not the answer, so he must be active in his pursuit.
Felix is no stranger to hunting. When he was but a boy, his father took both he and Glenn out to the woods on the edge of the Fraldarius estate, for annual hunts during Autumn. He knows that you can track your prey, or lure it out, and he resolves to try both.
Tracking proves to be futile – it is simply everywhere. It is watching over his shoulder as he scribbles notes during lectures, it is standing on the sidelines like his old fencing coach when he takes up practice bouts. It is in the marketplace when he haggles with the blacksmith for the price of weapon repairs, it is kneeling next to him in prayer at Mass. It is singing during choir practice when Felix simply moves his mouth (the bare minimum he can get away with), and is watching with a critical eye when he carries out his weekly chores.
But most of all, it is there when he is alone: during his private training sessions, or when he slinks around the Cathedral trying to get some peace and quiet from his over-enthusiastic peers.
And, of course, during the small hours of the night. When he strips from his uniform into his nightclothes, and when he bathes, and when he snuffs out the torches on the wall to go to sleep – it is there, more than ever. He tells himself he feels sick: it’s watching him during the intimate hours, while he is barely dressed and on display for it.
But a hunter is nothing if not resourceful, and if this is how he must lure it out, then he will do it.
He will lure it out and then he will finish it. He’s an accomplished duelist, a swordsman. Surely, he can goad it into becoming – what, corporeal? A mass that can be destroyed with a blade, or his rudimentary black magic? He isn’t sure, but he will figure something out, and he can put his thoughts of Glenn back in the locked chest in the back of his mind where they belong.
A week later, the presence is no longer appearing when Felix retreats to his dorm after evening free hours to change for bed. Rather it is waiting for him, growing stronger. It feels like less of a scattered mass and more of a concentrated form, lingering in a certain area. It is standing next to his bed. It is sitting on the chest. It is leaning against the door frame. It drives Felix mad, with anger or annoyance, or some sort of desire, he doesn’t know. But he is sure he is close to the day when he can finish it off, and he nods to himself, satisfied.
Tonight, the presence leans against the wall, watching him undress. Felix, in a fit of bravery, faces it; sits on his bed and pulls off his boots, placing them in his wardrobe, shimmying out of his pants, hopping on one leg to remove them in his haste. But he miscalculates his step, and trips. His cheeks redden, but there is no one to notice.
Nobody except the presence, and he swears he hears that laugh again. It’s Glenn’s, rounded out around the edges, and light. Glenn wasn’t one to laugh too often, but when he did – it was one of Felix’s favorite sounds.
All at once, he’s disgusted with himself.
He was going to rid himself of this presence? It’s Glenn, or something like him. It’s a chance for Felix to see him one more time, to crack the hardened shell around his heart, the armor he’d slowly built as he’d watched his father slip more and more to a ridiculous acceptance of Glenn’s passing.
But that was never Glenn’s fault. He’d loved him – loves him, perhaps more than a brother should.
He can’t rid himself of this presence, even if it is just a conjured thought, or a mockery of Glenn by something more sinister. Because if it isn’t, Felix will never forgive himself.
The presence is easier to deal with when he thinks of it as Glenn with certainty. He isn’t constantly glancing over his shoulder with a furtive stare that makes Ingrid interrogate him in that way of hers, or Dimitri hover with concerned looks.
And he finds, to his surprise, that he perhaps feels comfortable with it – warm at his side, a friend to share the day with. He won’t talk to the presence, not out loud, but he imagines what he’d say. They’d observe which Knights of Seiros perhaps had some talent of note for Felix to learn from, they’d share a private laugh and scoff together about which of his classmates were not as talented at their preferred weapon of choice as they thought they were. Felix could offer up things he’d learned in his lectures and Glenn could chuckle and say that Hanneman and Manuela haven’t changed a bit since he had been at Garreg Mach.
If anyone notices that something is off with Felix, they don’t question it, and he is glad for the solitary reputation he’s built up. More alone time means more time with his brother, and he is glad for it.
But he grows selfish, and he wants more.
And he can think of only one way to get it.
He feels his breath come in quick bursts as he dares to wrap his hand around his cock, slowly and quietly. The halls are quiet in the small hours, walls of wood and stone blocking out any noise from his neighbors; Dimitri’s nightmares, Claude’s midnight trysts. He doesn’t do this often. Giving into wants of the flesh is another distraction from his ambitions, and he generally waits until he cannot stand it anymore. But tonight, he indulges with a purpose.
He doesn’t normally think of anything in these moments, allowing his mind to go blank – afraid of what images he may conjure, if he doesn’t. But now he welcomes those forbidden fantasies, knowing what his goal is. In his mind’s eye, he sees blue-black hair so similar to his own, wavy where Felix’s is pin straight. Storm blue eyes where Felix’s are golden, and a smidge taller, but there is no doubt that this man is Felix’s sibling. In his thoughts, Glenn looks like Felix remembers him: 18 years old and headed off to fight for the final time. What would he look like now? Not too different, he imagines. Hair longer, a Fraldarius male tradition to grow it out, but still the same height, the same mischievous, rare grin, shown only for Felix. A bit more battle-worn, more scars, callused fingers.
He slowly pumps up and down, and the calluses on his own hands could be his brother’s, prodding at his foreskin, the friction dragging along like a whetstone to a blade, and he gasps. Around him, the presence swells and grows, and he imagines it a balloon, fit to burst if he continues. But he does continue, for he had been correct: the presence is strongest when he’s alone, and now, he is doing the world’s oldest solitary activity. He knows this is wrong, but it’s hard to dwell on that when it feels this right. He can feel himself leaking from his slit already, and he thumbs it absentmindedly. The presence is surrounding him now, as if arms snake around him, as if the heavy chain of mail sits upon his neck.
Felix pauses in his movements to breathlessly reach for the jar of oil stowed in the drawer to the right of his bed, to coat his fingers, to imagine Glenn inside of him, and as his cock begins to wilt from the lack of stimulation, the presence wanes. It launches Felix into a panic he’d be ashamed of were someone to witness (someone real, because Glenn isn’t real, right?), feeling his breath come in quick bursts. He considers stopping himself, halfway to climax, because this is ridiculous. But there’s a small part of his brain egging him on – Glenn is watching. Is this his way of encouraging Felix?
He moves his hand back onto his cock, and all at once, the presence returns, nearly overwhelming.
“Keep going,” he imagines it whispers – or perhaps it does whisper. Felix startles himself as he lets out a relieved breath that stutters into a chuckle. Could it be that the closer he moves to orgasm, the stronger the presence is? If he edges himself long enough, will the presence take shape, or let out a noise that surely isn’t just in his head, as he had heard Glenn’s laugh on the training grounds, and again in his room?
He almost doesn’t dare to think of it, but nonetheless, he probes himself experimentally with a slick finger, pulling at his balls with his other hand, then returning his thumb to his slit, moving in slow circles.
“Glenn,” he moans before he can stop himself, a mournful lust to his voice, and he flushes. But he feels currents like a thunderbolt rip through his legs, a pool of heat low in his belly like the last embers of a fire, and he knows he’s just a moment away from finishing. He finally gets a finger inside of himself, and oh, if only it were Glenn – bigger, longer, and he would move in a way that knows Felix, intimately. Nevermind that this would be their first time: who knew him, truly knew him, and how to pleasure him, more than his kin?
He jerks his hips forward, slipping a second finger inside of himself, his other hand absently stopping its movement on his shaft. And yet, as sure as he is not moving his hand any longer, there is still friction, a slide of equally callused fingers to his own, and he gasps. He almost doesn’t dare to open his eyes fully, keeping them hooded, almost closed, as they had been since he began his tryst. But he needs to – needs to bring them up to meet his own gaze in his mirror, mounted on the wall across from the bed.
When he finally grows brave enough to tilt his neck up, deep blue eyes meet Felix’s, their pupils dark with desire. A small, private grin sits on Glenn’s face, just as he had imagined, and he cocks his head as he puts his hand up in a wave. Felix whips around, he wants – to see Glenn? To kiss him, to embrace him, he doesn’t know, but nobody is behind him. Even so, nimble fingers nudge Felix’s own off of his dick, and he falls back to support himself with his palm, causing the fingers in his ass to be buried deeper, and he nearly cries with how good he feels.
Glenn knows exactly what to do.
The way he runs his fingers up Felix’s shaft is expert, palm gripping and fingers kneading, smearing pre-cum around his foreskin, adding to the feeling. Felix keens in a way he is too lost in ecstasy to find embarrassing, and he swears he feels a tongue swipe over the slit of his dick.
“Glenn, I can’t, please,” he says, feeling his whisper tremble.
“Of course you can,” comes Glenn’s voice, whispering directly into his ear, and Felix swears he feels hot breath on the shell of it, making a shiver run down his body.
Glenn’s hand pumps faster, and Felix moves his fingers within himself. Glenn’s hands are everywhere at once, disembodied and teasing – they run themselves over his nipples, around his neck, up to his lips. Felix darts out his tongue, breath ragged.
“Felix,” he hears, Glenn’s voice lilting, teasing, but still full of love. “Come now.”
It’s too much – he does, harder than he ever remembers doing so before, vision nearly going dark, crowding in from the sides in little orange and grey spots. Glenn’s hand doesn’t stop as he does, hot cum on his stomach, panting breaths loud in the quiet stillness of the night. There’s a delicate grasp on his wrist, and he belatedly realizes that he’d stopped fingering himself when he’d finished. But Glenn moves his hand for him now, and as Felix looks up, Glenn is kneeling behind him, curled around his neck, licking a delicate pass into the juncture there. Felix turns his head ever so slightly to catch Glenn’s lips with his own. It’s soft and gentle and loving and everything he could imagine.
Glenn moves Felix’s hand inside of him as sweet as his kisses, softly moving one of his own fingers beside Felix’s. He’s overwhelmed: it’s love, it’s lust, and he cums again, Glenn’s hand pulling itself over the tip of his cock as if to catch Felix’s spill.
And still he doesn’t stop. Felix is surprised to find himself still hard, and isn’t. It’s Glenn – he wants to finish for him as many times as he can, wants to let Glenn wring as many orgasms as he can from him, until he is raw and finished and splayed out on the bed in a way he never allows himself to be for anyone else.
Felix hears himself moaning in a distant way, flickering his eyes open and shut to meet with Glenn’s, to watch his hips twitch; he feels everything. Heat burns his face like he sits too close to the fire in the hearth, but it has long since burned out. He feels raw, like ice and like a wave of white magic has washed over him. Like he has worn himself out from battle, but like it is the best thing he’s ever felt. He’s lost track of how many times he’s finished for Glenn.
“One more time, Felix, can you do that?”
And he can, of course he can, he can hear a cry loose itself from his throat, and the last thing he swears he hears before giving into the darkness of the sleep that finally overtakes him is Glenn saying I love you.